Bless You, Autocorrect
by Evie Specter
Summary: Based on the inception kink prompt "Arthur and Eames get together through a series of embarrassing Autocorrect fails." Rating for language and innuendo - lots and lots of language and innuendo.  Arthur/Eames.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Based on the inception kink prompt "Arthur and Eames get together through a series of embarrassing Autocorrect fails." Texts are in [brackets]. Rating is for language and innuendo. Lots, and lots, of language and innuendo...

Disclaimer: As usual, the dirty imagination is all mine. Not the characters.

* * *

><p>The job was scheduled for New Years Eve. A drunken blackout was the perfect cover for dream-sharing. Unfortunately, working over the holidays came with a unique set of inconveniences. Last year Eames had spent the New Year in Rio. He had packed one pair of jeans, three shirts, and four bathing suits (and had returned with two shirts, two bathing suits, a bikini top, and several strands of beads). This year he was packing his one wool suit, a chullo, fingerless gloves, flannel pajamas, and a wool sweater he had bought off a homeless man during that one job in Moscow – desperate climes call for desperate measures. It still reeked of vodka.<p>

His phone chirped, indicating a text.

[Cobb (1:43 pm): all the hotel had left was a double]

Eames imagined that sharing a room with Cobb would be very much like sharing a room with his father. Funky aftershave, lots of snoring, and no porn.

[Eames (1:44 pm): I hate the holocaust]

[Eames (1:44 pm): *holidays]

[Eames (1:44 pm): also the holocaust]

[Cobb (1:45 pm): do you mind sharing with Arthur?]

Eames smiled at his phone. He could see Arthur in his pajamas! Black silk pants and a white beater, perhaps. Or maybe just black boxer-briefs. Or nothing at all?

[Eames (1:45 pm): I love the holocaust]

[Eames (1:46 pm): Sorry *holidays rubbish autocorrect]

[Eames (1:46 pm): No]

[Cobb (1:46: pm): you won't share?]

[Eames (1:47 pm): duck]

[Eames (1:47 pm): duck]

[Eames (1:47 pm): shirt]

[Eames (1:47 pm): *FUCK SHIT yes]

[Eames (1:47 pm): yes ass in I'll share]

[Eames (1:48 pm): *as]

[Eames (1:52 pm): Hello? Cobb?]


	2. Chapter 2

Eames was starting to wonder if Arthur would ever come to bed. It was eleven pm in Montreal, which meant it was five am in Kenya. Unfortunately Arthur had come from Australia, where it was currently the afternoon.

Eames wasn't entirely sure why he was so interested in seeing Arthur in his pajamas. Well, there was naturally a certain amount of expectation that came with Arthur's couture wardrobe. Whatever Arthur wore, Eames would probably be able to tease him for it. But if he was that painfully curious he could just snoop in Arthur's suitcase. But then Arthur wouldn't be in said pajamas. He just wanted to know if Arthur wore socks to bed and did he like boxers or briefs and what did his hair do without gel...

Eames started awake. The clock read three am. He realized it was dark – he must have woke when Arthur killed the light. He heard the covers shuffle in the next bed.

He missed it!

"Arthur what are you wearing?" he mumbled.

"What?" Arthur hissed. "Fuck off!"

Eames rubbed his face and tried to see in the dark. But Arthur had drawn the light-blocking curtains and all Eames could make out was a fuzzy Arthur-shaped shadow.

After a moment Arthur's breathing was slow and even, as controlled as if the man had trained for a sleeping marathon. Eames, conversely, was now wide awake.

The room was a little humid and smelled like Almonds. Arthur must have taken a shower. The man made a little sniffling sound and Eames' ears perked.

Five minutes later he realized he was not going to fall back asleep. He flopped out of bed and grabbed his bag. Cobb had already given them the address for the warehouse. If he had to pick a few locks to get in so be it.

Arthur next heard from Eames at breakfast. He was sitting down to yogurt and fruit when his phone buzzed with a text.

[Eames (8:19 am): could you bring me a change of clothes from the hotel please]

"Who is it?" Ariadne asked. She had joined Arthur in the lobby for the complimentary breakfast.

"Eames," Arthur answered.

"Is he coming for breakfast?" Ariadne asked.

[Arthur (8:19 am): ?]

[Eames (8:20 am): I just broke my penis and it exploded all over my pants]

Arthur inhaled a yogurt-smothered bit of granola.

"Jesus, Arthur, are you okay?" Ariadne asked.

Arthur hacked and clutched at his sweater-vest like an asthmatic, then sent his phone skittering across the table to Ariadne. She snatched it up and read the text.

Cobb heard someone laughing from the stairwell and thought it sounded familiar. Then he realized – that sound was coming from Arthur. He could count on one hand the number of times he had heard Arthur belly-laugh like that. When he entered the lobby he saw his point-man leaned back, loosening his tie almost indecently. Ariadne was hiding her head under the table she was laughing so hard. Arthur just handed Cobb the phone.

[Eames (8:20 am): I just broke my penis and it exploded all over my pants]

Cobb chuckled and tapped back a response.

[Arthur (8:24 am): This is Cobb. Wake up, Mr. Eames, and reread what you just wrote.]

[Eames (8:24 am): yes well I slept like rubbish because Arthur left the bloody tampon all night]

When Cobb started wheezing, pressing his fingers to his eyes, Arthur snatched the phone back.

[Eames (8:25 am): christ on a cracker]

[Arthur (8:26 am): I left the *lamp* on because I was working]

[Arthur (8:26 am): You should try it some time]

[Eames (8:26 am): there's a joke about your pms in here somewhere.]

[Eames (8:27 am): pants. If you please.]


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I forgot to mention all of these autocorrect fails are based on real fails published on the internet. Since I like to keep my dirty jokes as realistic as possible.

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><p>Eames had been the butt of jokes all day in the warehouse, which along with the crappy space-heaters and fingerless gloves made him feel as abused as Bob Cratchit. When he saw Ariadne striding across the warehouse purposefully, he knew what was coming.<p>

"Don't worry, it's not broken, the doctor says that's impossible," he sighed.

"I just wanted to thank you, Eames," she said, beaming.

He leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed.

"I have never seen Arthur laugh that hard," Ariadne continued in a murmur. "It was like seeing a leprechaun. Did you know he has dimples?"

"Of course," Eames said. He had once drawn Yusuf a map of how to find Arthur's dimples. It involved capturing a manticore, crossing a street in Mogadishu without a gun, and discovering an eighth Harry Potter novel.

Ariadne left.

Eames hunched back over his desk and glared at Arthur across the warehouse. He had never seen Arthur belly-laugh. Arthur pulled his scarf higher up around his ears, bunching his stiff hair just a little. Suddenly Eames felt like the protagonist in a tragic French screenplay. All he ever wanted in life was to see his darling's dimples. From afar he brings forth the impossible, and yet he alone can not bask in the joy of his creation.

Eames checked his watch. Eight pm. Cobb had left an hour ago to call his children.

"Going to be done any time soon, Arthur?" Eames asked.

"No, go ahead," Arthur answered.

Arthur heard Eames jog down the metal stairs followed by the bang of the outer door. In truth Arthur's eyes were aching and his fingertips were numb, yet he was haunted by the idea that he was missing something. The mark was a dentist – a dentist that had won big in Vegas. The casino wanted to make sure he hadn't cheated. But if this man _had _cheated, his life as a dentist was all an elaborate cover. It was very much like a diagnosis by elimination. There was no way to prove for sure this man _was _a dentist – Arthur instead had to eliminate all the ways by which an individual might hide an aspect of their identity.

He didn't stop for dinner. Sherlock Holmes once said that digestion slowed the thinking process, and Arthur was inclined to agree.

It would be more comfortable to work back at the hotel, but Eames really had looked dog-tired today. Hell, when he left the warehouse he looked like someone had run over his kitten. Arthur would never admit it to Eames, but he did feel slightly sheepish for leaving the light on so late. If Arthur worked late at the warehouse tonight Eames could get a good night's rest, and Arthur also wouldn't be distracted when Eames put on those plaid flannel pants that were just a little too long, or by Eames' scruffy bare chest with the tattoos like licorice, or Eames' gruff sleep-murmurs in foreign languages...

Arthur was startled awake by a buzz honking next to his ear. His face was smeared on an open manila folder. There was a moist patch below his mouth on a photo of the mark. Arthur reached for his phone, the source of noise, and realized there was still a pencil clutched in his frozen fingers.

[Eames (8:12 am): Rise and shine, darling. Are you still at the bloody warehouse?]

Arthur had only been asleep for an hour or so – in Australia it was only ten pm. Arthur tapped back a response, fingers slurring over the keys.

[Arthur (8:13 am): I fell asleep with my penis in my hand]

Oh shit.

[Arthur (8:13 am): *pencil]

[Eames (8:13 am): feeling lonely? You should've come back to the hotel]

Arthur had a vision of Eames in his baggy pajama bottoms and clamped down on the butterflies in his stomach.

[Arthur (8:14 am): if you show that to anyone I will END YOU]

[Eames (8:14 am): I'm laughing so hard I might die before you have the chance]

[Eames (8:15 am): but I'm willing to accept a bribe what are you offering?]

[Arthur (8:15 am): not ending you?]

[Eames (8:16 am): remember, darling, positive emotions are more cathartic than negative ones]

Damn inception jokes! Barely awake and too flustered to type a comeback, Arthur tried misdirection.

[Arthur (8:16 am): are you on your way in?]

[Eames (8:16 am): nice try.]

[Eames (8:17 am): how about a New Year's kiss at midnight?]

They wouldn't even be able to wait the last five seconds before crashing their lips together. Eames' lips would be smiling and soft as a daffodil, tongue tangy with champagne. Confetti would tickle their scalps like butterfly wings and in the crush of revelers no one would care that two men were wrapped around each other.

Arthur blushed at the ridiculous image. He didn't even like "When Harry Met Sally" and he preferred his sex aggressive and uninhibited. He blamed the sleep deprivation. And damn Eames for teasing him!

[Arthur (8:18 am): meeting in the warehouse when you get here]

Arthur was sure he could drum up some sort of material for a meeting. He had been working all night, after all.

[Eames (8:18 am): just grabbing my fag and Jews]

[Eames (8:18 am): *vag and Jews]

[Eames (8:19 am): *fag and Keynes]

[Eames (8:19 am): *bag and Jews]

[Eames (8:19 am): *BAG AND KEYS FUCKSOCKS]

Arthur didn't even comment on the autocorrect. Which in Eames' mind meant he was either seriously offended or seriously considering his offer.

* * *

><p>AN: this was rather a long update, so a few days before the next post. But never fear, more is coming and I know exactly how this is going to end.


	4. Chapter 4

Eames stole Arthur a muffin and yogurt from the hotel's continental breakfast – he knew Arthur probably hadn't eaten. Eames liked the heroin-chic look as much as the next man, but he drew the line at Keira Knightley.

When Eames arrived poor Arthur looked like a crumpled stress-ball. His face was creased from sleeping on the folder and his hair was crinkled on one side. Instead of laughing Eames felt an almost irrepressible surge of affection. He dropped the bag of food on Arthur's desk without a word then went to shuffle papers on his own desk and pull himself together before the meeting.

Then, of course, there was no meeting. Either Arthur had been lying or the sleep deprivation had blown the meeting from his memory like so many dandelion seeds. A text a few hours later provided evidence to the latter.

[Arthur (11:01 am): I'm thinking unicorns would help us get into the new year's party if you can't forge the tickets]

Eames had left the warehouse to observe the mark's wife, who was spending a day at the spa with her best friend. Accordingly Eames had his feet in a mini-jacuzzi when he received Arthur's text. He chuckled to himself, not loud enough to alert the mark's wife across the room.

[Eames (11:01 am): I just forwarded that to everyone]

[Arthur (11:02 am): *UNIFORMS YOU DUMBASS]

Arthur's condition only worsened throughout the day. A few hours later Eames received another ill-fated text.

[Arthur (3:32 pm): I need anal]

This time Eames was sitting near the mark's wife and her friend in a coffee shop. He received the text just as he brought a mug to his lips, and was of course instantly thankful he had yet to take a sip. Unfortunately the text also brought to mind a salaciously indecent image of Arthur bent over his own desk, pants around his ankles, Eames' tan hand splayed on Arthur's creamy back, Arthur keening a little at the end of each breath, the feeling of Eames' -

Eames crossed his legs swiftly and typed a response.

[Eames (3:33 pm): can you wait until I get back?]

[Arthur (3:34 pm): *a nap asshole]

[Eames (3:34 pm): what's amazing is that your phone misspells normal words like "pencil" and "nap" but never seems to misspell your dirty insults. Doesn't autocorrect learn from the user?]

[Arthur (3:35 pm): maybe it's been spending too much time with you]

Arthur's response was verging on affectionate, really. Eames decided to show Arthur some mercy.

[Eames (3:36 pm): I'm at the coffee shop what do you want?]

[Arthur (3:36 pm): ventilation Americanization]

Eames just assumed Arthur meant a "venti Americano."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: no autocorrect in this chapter - it's fluffy as a bunny rabbit - but Steve Jobs will make his reappearance in the next update for sure.

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><p>The mark had rented rented one of Montreal's most popular clubs for his New Year's Eve party. You could always count on gamblers for subtlety, Eames mused. Located in a 1930s art deco bank building, the club featured leather banquettes, soaring twenty foot ceilings, and four Swarovski crystal chandeliers. The room glowed with indigo and pink and pulsed with the type of terrible electronic music Eames was used to from Europe. Contrary to popular belief there <em>was <em>such a thing as good electronic music – Siriusmo, perhaps – but this crap did not qualify. A tray of canapes swept past the edge of the dance-floor and Eames grabbed three shrimp tempura. He intended to get at least one dinner's worth out of this party.

Arthur leaned against the glass balcony overlooking the dance-floor. His mind was on the job. There was one handicap restroom on the main floor, sequestered in a hallway behind the bar. This is where they would set up the PAS-IV. The dream only required one level, and they should be in and out of the bathroom in thirty minutes, if everything went according to plan. A bouncer had been paid handsomely to guard the door during their engagement. He would turn any users away by saying the restroom was occupied. Which, of course, would be true. It was Eames' job to get the mark _into _the bathroom.

Cobb was leaning against an LED pillar, arguing with Philippa via text about how late she would be allowed to stay up. This occupied approximately one-tenth of his brain capacity. Fifteen percent of his thoughts were busy remembering a particular New Years Eve with Mal in which she convinced him to try Absinthe in Paris. Half of his thoughts were reviewing the impending extraction, from Eames' forgery of the wife, to the hotel room safe, to the Penrose stairs leading to the basement. The last quarter of his mind was considering how offended Ariadne would be if he threw his suit-coat around her shoulders and barred her from the dance-floor.

Ariadne might be mildly offended to discover she only occupied twenty-five percent of Cobb's attention. She had bought her mini-dress in Paris with the express intention of captivating everyone's attention with her fluttering fringe and sparkling sequins. When she found out the team was going under without her, she had stormed around the warehouse until Eames promised to forge her a ticket . The least she could do in return was stage a scintillating distraction during the job. She imagined Ben & Jerry and her cat were pining after her horribly.

Yusuf was in Brazil on Eames' advice, sharing jello shots with Topher Brink, Tadashi, and Mumbles. They were currently on a feathered float in the middle of a street in Rio, although Yusuf couldn't remember how they had got there. Perhaps he should check his totem. After inception he had promised himself to make nothing but good decisions. But Brazilian women were always very, very good decisions.

Saito was sitting on a leather seat in the cabin of his fastest plane. Celebrating the western New Year just once was so bourgeois. Fortunately it was entirely possible to celebrate twenty-four times when you owned the world's fastest aircraft. And with the unexcelled Gogo Yubari on his lap, Saito thought a celebration was indeed in order.

Robert Fischer was locked in the bathroom of a hotel, hiding from his guests while he had a panic attack. He had just been introduced to a man named Clarkie something, and had no idea why but the man's face had stricken him with terror. Things like that happened to him a lot, lately.

Arthur tugged aside his sleeve and checked his watch. It was almost midnight. Sure enough, the DJ turned down the music and announced the approaching New Year in french. Little kazoos and party horns were being passed around. A huge screen behind the DJ displayed the countdown – thirty seconds. Arthur sighed and pushed off the balcony to go stand by the wall. He didn't like the idea of being bombarded by balloons and confetti.

Arthur reflected that the last time he had been kissed at midnight it had been by Mal, fast and sloppy. She and Cobb had laughed raucously at his shocked face. They hadn't know it yet, but she was pregnant with Philippa, which explained the glow in her cheeks.

Suddenly the lights swept across the floor and then dimmed. The only light came from the giant screen. The whole crowd was counting down, now.

"_TEN... NINE..."_

_Just get it over with already_, Arthur huffed to himself. A couple in the corner was already making out, too impatient to wait. He rolled his eyes and turned his back on them.

"_EIGHT... SEVEN..."_

Arthur heard someone jogging up the stairs and automatically glanced over his shoulder towards the noise. Then Eames' broad shoulders cut through the crowd at the top of the stairs and his eyes fell on Arthur. Eames smiled. Arthur felt a little like he was back in the spinning hallway from inception.

"_SIX... FIVE..."_

Eames ambled forward, hands in his pockets, gaze bold and unflinching, giving Arthur plenty of time to flip him off, or run, or shove a canape in his mouth. Eames stopped three feet from Arthur and pulled out his phone. "I saved that text," Eames said.

"_FOUR... THREE..."_

Arthur's lips twitched at the corner. "Blackmail, Mr. Eames?"

"Will get you anywhere, Mr. Arthur."

"_TWO... ONE..."_

Arthur rolled his eyes and wrapped his hand around the back of Eames' neck.

"_MIDNIGHT! Should old acquaintance be forgot..."_

Their noses bumped and Eames chuckled and then their mouths were a little open when they met. The kiss was firm but shy, considering what Arthur was expecting. Eames pressed his hand to the base of Arthur's back and Arthur felt his stomach flip. Before he knew what he was doing he had grabbed Eames' tie and reversed their positions, pinning Eames against the wall.

Eames could've melted into a puddle on the floor. The crowd was screaming and Auld Lang Syne was blaring but his ears were ringing and all he could think was, _Yes, Yes, Yes. _He brushed his thumb over Arthur's cheekbone and deepened the kiss.

Arthur pulled back and said, "Go. The mark."

"What?" Eames said, grinning idiotically.

"The mark, you ass," Arthur laughed, and then Eames saw one of Arthur's dimples. Just one, but it was enough. "Don't push your luck."

Eames winked and brushed past Arthur, knocking shoulders. He didn't get to see Arthur's smoldering look after him.

Arthur returned to the balcony and tracked Eames' progress across the dance-floor. Eames swept an almost-empty drink off a passing waiter's tray and wove towards the mark, carefully lifting the drink over shoulders and heads. Five feet from the mark he started laughing and stumbling, then veered left and crashed headlong into the mark. Both his and the mark's drinks went flying.

Arthur smirked, imagining he could hear Eames' obsequious french apology across the room. Eames was so sorry, of course, and so mortified that he could only possibly make it up to the man by buying him another drink. A drink which would be laced with one of Yusuf's compounds. Fifteen minutes later the mark would feel ill and ask the bartender for the restroom. A few minutes after that he would slip into unconsciousness. Yusuf had calibrated the chemical precisely so that there would be no chance the mark would slip into unconsciousness too early, choking on his own vomit. Arthur had thought to ask that, of course. It was his job to think of everything.

Eames faded back into the crowd as the mark slipped back onto the dance-floor, new drink in hand. Eames met Arthur's gaze just for a moment, eyes boring into Arthur's even across the room, and then went to find Cobb.

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><p>AN: about three chapters left? Reviews have been exquisitely delightful!


	6. Chapter 6

They split up after the job without so much as a "Happy New Year." Ariadne back to Paris, Cobb to his children, Eames to Mombasa, and Arthur to -

Well, actually, Eames had no idea where Arthur was going. Wherever it was he grabbed a red-eye straight from the club. His bags were gone from the hotel room by the time Eames got back.

Back in Mombasa Eames gambled away the pay from Montreal and watched Yusuf's pirated DVDs of "Frisky Dingo." When he started to see signs of sexual tension between Killface and Xander Crews he decided it was time to grow a pair. There weren't any _official _no-contact rules. He would just give Arthur a call.

Or, as it happened, a text. A text seemed far more casual.

[Eames (12:34 am): question]

[Arthur (12:34 am): can't talk meeting with hot man]

Eames observed his phone. Joke or not a joke?

[Eames (12:35 am): are you trying to make me jealous?]

Eames had visions of Arthur and Robert Fischer sharing drinks in Sydney.

[Eames (12:36 am): it's working]

[Eames (12:36 am): Arthur?]

[Arthur (12:36 am): for christ's sake this is a rape opportunity shut up until he gets laid]

Eames set the phone down on the coffee table and stared at it for several moments. He got up to make a cup of tea, then changed his mind and went back to glance at the phone. Yes, that was definitely what Arthur said. He got up again and pulled his jam-jar of ice coffee out of the fridge. He leaned against the wall, approximately ten feet away from the phone.

He nearly spilled the coffee all over himself when the phone buzzed against the wood tabletop.

[Arthur (1:05 am): you had a question?]

Eames texted back the same thing that had been running through his mind for the past half-hour.

[Eames (1:06 am): I'm quite sure I don't know what to say]

[Arthur (1:06 am): ?]

[Arthur (1:07 am): oh]

[Arthur (1:07 am): *hit man]

[Arthur (1:07 am): *rare opportunity]

[Arthur (1:08 am): *paid]

Eames let out a ghastly sigh of relief. Of course Arthur wasn't a serial rapist. Ridiculous.

[Arthur (1:08 am): you can imagine the type of info the guy has]

[Arthur (1:08 am): what do you want?]

Eames' fingers hovered over the screen. This conversation was bizarre. Perhaps it was better if they just waited to talk in person.

[Eames (1:09 am): never mind]

During the walk back to his hotel Arthur weighed the pros and cons of texting Eames back. There wasn't an _official _no-contact rule, and besides, it had been over a week since Montreal. Ultimately, he felt weird to the utmost leaving the conversation on that note.

As soon as he closed the hotel door he pulled out his phone.

There was already a text waiting.

[Unknown (6:27 pm): is it okay to turn off the vacuum? There is a problem with your vacuum.]

Arthur's heart accelerated. This could easily be a ploy to get a response from him.

[Arthur (6:27 pm): Who is this?]

[Unknown (6:28 pm): Tae soo]

[Arthur (6:28 pm): Never shut the vacuum off ever. Ever.]

Then Arthur pulled out his phone's sim-card and snapped it. As point man he never took chances. If he thought about Eames and felt slightly dejected looking at the little plastic pieces he would never admit it to anyone.

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><p>AN: reviews always welcome! A few more chapters to come.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Another brief foray into wrong-number texts... Steve Jobs' autocorrect will return next chapter. Because he's basically a character.

* * *

><p>Arthur went and bought a new sim-card as soon as the stores opened the next morning. He'd have to alert all his important contacts to the new number; fortunately he had an eidetic memory, so he could recall all the phone numbers on his destroyed sim-card. He felt compelled to dial one number first, however, and did so as soon as he programmed the encryption for his new phone.<p>

It was late afternoon in Mombasa. Yusuf was sprawled on the floor behind his shop counter, cat splayed on his chest and frozen peas on his forehead. Was it possible to still be hung-over after a week? Or was it just the heat-wave? … Or was it the electric blue compound he and Topher had cooked in Brazil (which he only remembered because he found the vials in his luggage)?

His phone chimed and he flicked open one eye to read the text.

[Unknown (4:24 pm): This is my new phone number.]

[Unknown (4:24 pm): To be clear this has nothing to do with raping or Montreal.]

Yusuf typed his answer with his eyes closed.

[Yusuf (4:25 pm): FUCK OFF]

The cat's purrs were making Yusuf feel like his chest was rumbling through a wood-chipper. Was that normal?

His phone chirped again.

[Unknown (4:27 pm): Is that for last night or Montreal?]

Grumbling, Yusuf punched back a response.

[Yusuf (4:27 pm): wrong bloody number]

"Anything wrong?" Eames called. He was sitting in the dark of the back room doing God knew what. He had showed up at the shop that afternoon with his hands in his pockets and a face like a rainy Saturday.

"Wrong bloody number," Yusuf said.

When his phone chirped yet again Yusuf sent his phone spinning across the shop floor.

What with his miraculous skills of observation and all Eames understood he was supposed to pick up the phone on Yusuf's behalf.

[Unknown (4:28 pm): Is this Yusuf?]

[Yusuf (4:28 pm): Is this Arthur?]

[Unknown (4:28 pm): Sorry you two have the same area code.]

Eames quietly set the phone back on the floor next to Yusuf, every nerve tingling, waiting for –

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

[Unknown (4:29 pm): This is my new phone number.]

Eames smiled, then mentally berated himself for acting like a twelve year-old chav.

[Eames (4:29 pm): I hope this doesn't have anything to do with raping or Montreal]

There was a pause before Arthur answered.

[Unknown (4:30 pm): You're with Yusuf?]

[Eames (4:30 pm): Quite.]

[Unknown (4:30 pm): So what did you want to ask me last night?]

Eames' fingers hovered over the screen. Last night he knew exactly what he wanted to ask: "Do you celebrate the Chinese New Year?"

"That's Arthur, isn't it," Yusuf mumbled.

"Um, yes," Eames answered. "New phone number. Again. Paranoid bastard."

There was a pause before Yusuf spoke again.

"I don't want to ask, but as your friend I feel compelled…"

"Just a joke. From the job," Eames said quickly.

The bag of peas went flying across the room, followed by the yowling cat. "Bloody hell – you fucked, didn't you!"

"What – "

"Oh, God, I never thought he'd succumb. And the universe didn't even erupt into a singularity!"

"How do you even come up with these things?" Eames cried.

Yusuf just raised his eyebrows, looking at him upside down from the floor.

"Oh, please," Eames said. "I would never use rape as a code-word. That's offensive."

"But something happened – don't deny it. This explains why you've been acting like Miss Havisham."

"Really? Not even Sweeney Todd or Heathcliff? They're both melodramatic."

"Yes, but they lack a vagina. Listen, Eames, whatever this is it's never going to be resolved over the phone."

"It was just a bloody New Year's kiss!" Eames exploded. "And besides – he could be in bloody Kolkata for all I know."

Yusuf laughed, but it swiftly disintegrated into a groan.

"I just sent him a shipment of somnacin, Sherlock. He's at his flat in New York."

Eames stood there for a moment before he remembered the phone in his hand.

[Eames (4:34 pm): never mind I'll ask next time I see you]


	8. Chapter 8

It was perfectly plausible for Eames to stop-over in New York for business - not even remotely suggestive of stalking. A stalker would've called Arthur every day since that last conversation.

Arthur didn't need to know Eames was texting from a taxi two blocks away.

[Eames (5:16 pm): I'm in New York for the night fancy a drink?]

[Arthur (5:17 pm): can't I'm picking up my ex then trying to fall asleep when it's impossible to breathe]

Eames' heart clenched.

[Arthur (5:17 pm): and if I have to blow my boss one more time I'm going to kill myself]

The sensation was very similar to that time Vincere kicked him in the nuts and tried to drown him in a toilet.

"Mary mother of God!" Eames whispered.

Of course, that time with Vincere Eames could flush.

He ran a finger over his lips, reeling. Which was more shocking? The Katharine McPhee lyrics or the Jimmy Springer confession? Or the rage like a shot of ammonia?

Eames composed his text.

[Eames (5:22 pm): first of all whoever she is she isn't worth it. You're exquisite, Arthur, and the only reason you should ever be breathless is if someone has taken your breath away through the means of an overblown romantic gesture, an invigorating dance, or mind-blowing sex. Second of all I had no idea that was going on with Cobb and this is completely inappropriate and disturbing and we're never working with him again and I'm going to go cut off his cock and nail it to the wall.]

[Arthur (5:22 pm): I could kiss you right now]

The rage fled his body. Eames fought to repress his smile.

[Eames (5:23 pm): I'm coming over]

[Arthur (5:23 pm): No I'm going to lick your ass]

Well that was unexpected.

"Stop right here," Eames commanded, and handed a wad of bills to the taxi driver. He would walk the last block to Arthur's apartment.

[Arthur (5:24 pm): FUCK]

Eames stuttered a little in his steps. This was not at all like Arthur. But then again...

[Eames (5:24 pm): yes that's the idea]

[Arthur (5:25 pm): ehjiop;l,mnbgy78i GODDAMN IT ALL TO HELL AUTOFUCK]

Eames was a few feet from Arthur's doorstep. He stopped and hefted the overnight bag on his shoulder.

[Arthur (5:27 pm): *Rx *nose *kill *kick]

Eames strolled up the front steps, heart drooping towards his stomach.

[Eames (5:27 pm): ?]

[Arthur (5:28 pm): *picking up my Rx]

[Arthur (5:28 pm): *blowing my nose]

[Arthur (5:28 pm): *I have a sinus infection]

[Arthur (5:28 pm): *you]

[Arthur (5:29 pm): *dumbass]

[Arthur (5:29 pm): *I could kill you]

[Arthur (5:29 pm): *and kick your ass]

Eames dropped his hand from where it hovered over the buzzer. It wasn't too late to pretend none of this ever happened. To delete the texts. To write off the kiss in Montreal. To go back to polite bickering. To go back to girls, for Christ's sake – he didn't think any man could ever compare to Arthur.

[Arthur (5:30 pm): *and my ex would be a he, not a she]

The door buzzed without Eames ever pressing the button. Arthur must have seen him on the street.

Eames pulled open the door and started trudging up the stairs. "The truth will out," he thought to himself ruefully. And hopefully set you free. Although the possibility of Arthur inviting him up simply to beat the shit out of him in the comfort of his apartment couldn't be ruled out.

Eames knocked. Arthur opened the door in a hoodie and jeans. There was no gel in his hair, although he had tucked the curls fiercely behind his ears. Eames physically swallowed the urge to bury his face in Arthur's bare neck.

"Hello," Eames said, holding himself a step back from the door. "I, um... I'd still really like to work with you. As a professional. You're the best, and I don't suppose I can explain..."

Arthur suddenly leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. He lingered for a moment and then withdrew.

"Well, that..." Eames scratched the back of his head and frowned. "That was weird. And definitely not helping your current adolescent image. Was that some sort of gentle let-down, then?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I have a sinus infection. I'm not kissing anyone on the mouth."

"Oh," Eames said. And then his heart started bobbing like a balloon. "Oh!" He was smiling.

Then Arthur's face contorted, he tensed up, and lept backward from the door. His sneeze was explosive.

"Ungh," Arthur groaned, and padded back into his apartment.

Eames followed in his footsteps, closing the door behind him. Arthur blew his nose indelicately.

"Alright, here's the plan," Eames said. "I'm going out to fill your prescription. Then I'm cooking soup and setting you up in front of the telly. Then I'm blowing you."

Arthur shot an incredulous look over his shoulder.

"What? You can't tell me little Arthur has a sinus infection, too."

The blow job ended up preceding the prescription and soup. They were a pair of boys, after all.

"Would you be horrified if I told you I – ah – I've been fantasizing about your... lips..." Arthur trailed off, gasping.

Eames whorled his tongue around the head of Arthur's cock ("Jesus!") and then answered. "I'm a little afraid you're going to pass out if you try speaking and breathing at the same time, dear, what with the sinus infection and all."

Arthur smacked his ear, but it was light as butterfly wings. Eames grabbed Arthur's thighs and pulled him farther down the couch cushions. He swallowed him in one. Arthur became satisfactorily incoherent.

Arthur's hands didn't quite know where to land. He tried gripping the arm of the sofa, running them through his hair, but somehow they kept on finding their way down to Eames' shoulders, his hair, his cheek. Eames' free hand brushed fondly over Arthur's own, and then disappeared again, knuckles nudging Arthur's perineum.

Arthur felt the pleasure ghosting over his abdomen, gathering, growing -

"Shit – I –"

Eames hummed around his cock and Arthur crested and plummeted, rose again and tumbled down, pulsed to his curling toes, shivered, whispered rapture, closed his eyes, and breathed.

He felt Eames' fingers comb through his hair and then the heat of Eames' body moving up beside his own. Arthur's own fingers stumbled to Eames mouth.

"No kisses," Arthur muttered, heart still pounding. Eames chuckled around his fingers. Then Arthur slipped his hand down, touching Eames' bare chest. He vaguely recalled commanding Eames to take his shirt off. He opened his eyes and focused on Eames' face blearily. Eames was grinning like an idiot, but his eyes were laden and his breathing heavy. Arthur shifted sideways so that they were laying flush, chest-to-chest, and slipped his hand down to unbutton Eames' trousers.

"You don't have to, love," Eames sighed. Arthur just smirked and slipped his hands into Eames' boxers.

Eames said something British and incomprehensible and banded an arm around Arthur's waist.

"Don't fall off," Eames commanded.

Arthur lifted his hand to his mouth and licked his palm. Eames shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. He was flushed and smoldering and Arthur felt a bolt of lazy pleasure in his groin.

He jerked Eames off quickly, because he preferred his love rough and uninhibited, and Eames' cock was already crying, for heaven's sake. Eames lolled his head against the cushions and muttered things in Swahili and French. Arthur caught some of the French, but he thought he probably missed the key words.

Arthur pressed a hand against Eames' hip-bone to keep him from bucking him off the couch. Then Eames let out an entirely debauched groan and came, muscles roping in Arthur's fist. Arthur grinned into Eames' shoulder. And then as Eames rode the last waves of pleasure Arthur understood _exactly _what Eames was muttering:

"Je t'aime, mon cher, mon ange, mon trésor canard, je t'aime, je t'adore, je t'adore... "

Eames sighed and tucked his head under Arthur's chin. Arthur grabbed Eames shirt from the floor to wipe his hand and Eames' stomach.

"I hate this shirt," he offered as explanation.

"And now I just love it more," Eames mumbled.

Then Arthur said, "You certainly know a lot of french endearments. Should I be jealous?"

Eames chuckled, sounding for all the world like a large, satisfied cat.

"I'm a con man, darling, remember?"

"Well if you ever call me your treasured duck again I will cut off one of your balls."

"Only one?" Eames laughed. "It seems I've won you over, after all." He sighed and loosened his grip around Arthur's waist. "Do you want me to get that prescription, now?"

Arthur tossed Eames' shirt over the back of the couch and answered simply, "No."

"Good," Eames sighed. He tightened his grip around Arthur and used his free arm as a pillow.

Arthur waited until Eames was dozing to whisper, "I love you, too."


	9. Brief Bonus Epilogue

Three months later Eames was cooking dinner in Arthur's apartment.

[Eames (6:31 pm): I hope you like nipples]

[Eames (6:31 pm): *nipples]

[Eames (6:31 pm): *nipples]

[Eames (6:32 pm): COCK]

[Eames (6:32 pm): *chipotle]

[Eames (6:33 pm): I'm cooking children]

[Eames (6:33 pm): Yes, children chipotle, I can hear you laughing from the future]

[Eames (6:33 pm): *chicken]

[Eames (6:34 pm): you know I had seriously been considering sending Steve Jobs a thank you note after all this. Fuck that.]

[Eames (7:12 pm): Do you have fresh garlic?]

[Arthur (7:13 pm): I don't know check my panty]

[Arthur (7:13 pm): PANTRY GOD DUCKING DAMN IT]

[Eames (7:13 pm): thank you dear]

* * *

><p>AN: Thank you all for all the precious reviews. It keeps my life festive and fancy.


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